Loath thy Neighbor

“It’s a nice piece of land,” Jeff said while hooking his thumbs in his belt, which fought gravity to keep his pants up underneath his protruding gut.

Ted pressed his heel into the soft wood of the porch. “Definitely needs some work.” But he couldn’t deny the view. Crisp October air tickled his bare arms as it whistled through feathering orange and red blending down the hillside. A soft creek babbled beneath the cabin, smoothing century-old stones. His socks squished in his shoes from a misstep off the little log bridge over the creek on their way up.

He’d worked several overtime shifts to fulfill this dream of owning a house. In his mind, by forty, that house would have a mailbox on a nice, paved road in a town ending in Ville or Place. His hand pulled on the loose railing, splintering away from the porch. He also thought he’d have two rugrats and a wife by now, but life had other plans. This house, however, sat alone, with one other house on the other side of the most picturesque old barn bridge. It was the only way to get to the house. The Mayor planned to develop the neighborhood, but money and interest ran out. Ted wanted the seclusion. He’d lived the last three years in Philadelphia in a rowhouse listening to the upstairs neighbor’s marriage disintegrate between insults, slamming doors, and shouting. He was ready to enjoy some peace. Shingles angled like jagged teeth at the end of the fraying roof, betraying their age and neglect. “When’s the last time anything’s been updated?”

Jeff raised his brows at the question; his mouth muttered about something in 2010, but his eyes widened, indicating never. Ted held his emotions like a knife behind his back, unwilling to let this townie realtor get more than a dime of what he thought this place was worth. “And the road?” He pointed to a dirt path that jostled Ted’s insides and rearranged the suspension on his car for the last mile.

Jeff pursed his lips. “It’s private; welcome to pave it yourself if ya like.” His foot stepped into the dirt of an overturned flowerpot, pouring the carcasses of daisies onto the washed-out wood planks. “There’s one thing you should know.”

Ted readied himself like a man in a gun standoff for the blow. “It’s haunted, isn’t it?” He knew the price was too good.

“Nothing like that.”

Ted interjected with sarcasm. The last owner killed himself and his whole family here.”

It landed flat as Jeff plastered his hand on his chest in disgust. “Damn, man, you crazy or something? Why don’t you let me talk?” He waved Ted toward the side of the house. “Your neighbor, Domhnall Walsh.” Ted made out a large, dark wooden cabin with a red tin roof through the pines. “You all gonna have to make an arrangement.”

“About what?” As far as Ted could tell, there was at least an acre between them, so it didn’t seem like much could come up. If you wanted a cup of sugar, you’d have to wade through a creek, up a thickly nettled, overgrown lawn, to even reach Ted’s front door.

“He owns the land on the other side of the creek where you parked your car, and he’s an ass.” Jeff left it at that, along with some papers detailing the property line.

By the time Ted owned the place, he’d decided an apple pie would smooth over any dispute. He’d wanted to bake it himself, but time got the best of him, so he transferred one of “Grandma’s finest” from the local store into a tin pan and practiced his lie.

His knuckles rattled the loose door. Domhnall, a weathered man, chiseled by hard labor and constant disappointment, filled the slit between the door frame. “I don’t believe in God, being reborn, or insurance. What do you want?”

Ted, dressed in charm and flannel, tipped his hat and pressed the warm pie toward the man. “Ted, I’m your new neighbor; I got this out of the oven just now and thought of you.”

The next morning, Ted found the empty pie tin waiting for him on his porch, with a note inside: “Don’t bother stopping by with store-bought pie.” He let out a breath, not sure if the rejection or the audacity stung more. As he bent to pick up the pan, he startled a badger scarfing down the bits of smashed pie smeared up the walkway to his front door. Muttering under his breath, Ted shooed the animal away, more annoyed at the mess than anything else. He had hoped at least the gesture would set things right. Turning to head back inside and nurse his bruised ego, something tugged at the edge of his attention. He paused, scanning the usual patch of dust and grass where he always parked. His car was missing. He blinked in disbelief, trying to piece it together. First the neighbor’s cold shoulder, now this. As he stepped closer, he saw heavy truck tracks grooved deep in the dirt where his car should have been, tire ruts stark and fresh. It was unlikely anyone stole it in a town where no one locked their doors, and Ted's car had all the bells and whistles that would go off if someone did. Ted’s stomach tightened. He reached for his phone to call Jeff.

“The ass towed my car!”

“He’s a creature of habit.”

“Can I sue him?”

The pause answered Ted’s question, but he held out hope until Jeff finally responded. “You can try. Paul did.”

“What did the court say?”

“They never resolved it; Paul died after six years of trying.”

Ted melted into the couch with his disappointment. “How the hell do I park at my house?”

The phone went dead. Ted wasn’t sure if it was truly bad reception or Jeff was done with the conversation.

Wood creaked outside as Domhnall balanced across the wooden bridge.

Ted marched outside. “Where the hell’s my car!”

Domhnall didn’t even turn around. “In the town where it belongs.”

“How am I supposed to park at my house, asshole?”

“Walk the mile from town like Paul.” Domhnall’s truck swayed as he pulled himself in. A black cloud of smoke plumed from the relic as it coughed on.

That evening, Ted sat in the local diner, fuming over his lukewarm minestrone. His glass sat empty from the waitress, too nervous to grab it for fear he’d bite her hand off instead. He slapped exact change on the counter and lumbered over to the local bar for a drink. Two pints in the mile walk didn’t seem so bad. He reasoned he’d get in great shape; he’d download a ton of audiobooks, and parking in the lot each evening was the consequence of living in a relatively cheap town. He started up the road. Mist hung low around the tree roots, giving his walk an eerie beauty. Deer grazed on the side of the road, unbothered by his presence, and he felt a tinge of pride that the wild had accepted him. Headlights blinded him. A truck sped by, nearly clipping him. He jumped to the side only to misstep, twist his ankle, and land face-first into a bush of nettles. The burn coursed through his body as he rose. He winced upward to see an old truck idle for a minute before heading down the road. He recognized that truck. Anger swelled in his chest.

He spent the better part of his day off at the town clerk's office, hunched over papers with a growling sense of frustration and hatred towards Domhall eating at his insides. The linework of the property survey was a puzzle, but when his finger traced the path of the creek, splitting the triangle cut out of the property under his name, a jolt of triumph shocked through him. “I own the damn bridge!” The words sounded both incredulous and victorious in his head, as if he’d been handed the winning play. For the first time since moving in, he felt a surge of control, something to hit back with, and a spike of spiteful glee sent his heart racing.

He returned home, glancing around as if expecting Domhnall to leap out from behind the pines. The coarse wood cut into his palms as he heaved the logs, but he barely registered the sting. Each scrape was a small price for the justice of it. With every log lifted away, a swell of satisfaction tightened his grin. He pictured Domhnall’s face when he found the bridge gone, and for a brief, childish moment, Ted felt pleased with his payback. “Good luck getting home, buddy.”

He lay back in his bed, almost giddy for the morning. A loud crash woke him before dawn. Groggy, he looked out his window and saw an entire tree lying across the stream, twigs and all. A few feet over all that remained of one of his pristine oaks was a ginormous hole. Domhnall worked a chainsaw at the other end, cutting through century-old roots.

“What the hell!” Ted ran out in underwear, so miffed by Domhnall’s blatant trust-passing, destruction of property, and smug smirk. “The police are on their way!” He kicked dirt at the older man.

Domhnall shrugged. “Can’t arrest a guy for an act of nature. The tree fell; I’m just a decent neighbor cleaning it up for us, seeing as neither of us has a bride to cross anymore.”

Ted fumed as the officer explained, in a monotone voice, that a fallen tree is not destroyed property and that Domhall was kind enough to use it. He walked the mile back into town to clear his head. According to the waitress, Ann Marie, at Denny’s, Domhall was a stickler for the law; if he deemed parking on his property to be trespassing, he would do everything in his power to enforce it. “He won’t light my house on fire or shoot me, right?” Ted needed to be sure he understood what kind of lunatic he was working with. The waitress snickered but didn’t answer outright. He admired her apple cheeks and amber curls and hoped if he left his number and a good tip, he'd have an ally.

The Mayor’s office sat in a squat building in the middle of a town that looked like the abandoned set of an old western. The sheriff provided no help, the clerk shrugged him off, and most people in town were uninterested in helping the newbie out; he decided to go to the top. He knocked on the main office door. Long, purple, dusty curtains flanked grime-covered windows. An elderly man sat in his seat with a towel wrapped around his neck.

An even older man with shaky hands snipped white stray hairs around his head. “Excuse me, sir.” Said Ted. “Can I ask you a question?”

The Mayor whipped his fingers as if herding cattle. “Go ahead, boy?”

Ted pointed up the creek. “I moved by Domhall a few weeks back.”

The Mayor laughed.

“I’m hoping you might be able to sway the guy-”

The Mayor butt in, “I don’t get involved in neighborhood politics.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

The feeble barber and the Mayor both froze. “You got a complaint about my work, go submit it in writing!” He leaned back in his chair. The barber raised a blade to his neck for a close shave. Ted left before he feared he’d be cast in the low-budget live reenactment or Sweeny Tod.

Ted returned home well after dark to find the beat-up truck blocking the path over the log. These old trucks weren’t built like the new cars, and you could break a wire, unscrew a cap, and the thing would stop working. Ted crawled underneath. He found the oil filter cap and wrenched it off with his bare hands, ripping the skin of his palms. He didn’t care, as delight washed over him with the steady flow of oil leaking out onto the dirt.

He woke to a loud bang. He prayed the car blew up. Instead, yellow lights flashed across his walls like Christmas as a mechanic worked, raising the truck a bit. Ted shimmied down the path. “What’s up with the truck? Need to chuck it?” He fought the edges of his mouth from grinning. The mechanic slit his eyes. Domhall stuffed his pipe with his thumb. “Some ass drained my oil, but no, she’ll run for as long as me.”

Ted clenched his jaw. Tired, bothered, and late for work, he tried to think of all the ways he could kill someone and get away with it. He wasn’t as creative as he'd hoped and lacked the imagination to come up with anything. On his way home, lost in thought, he forgot to park in town. His wheels thudded across the bridge. A board wobbled, forcing Ted to veer a bit. The thought came to him as his headlight cracked against the side of the bridge.

Ted waited until after dark. He made a point of texting Ann Marie that he was home. Instead, he crouched at the foot of the bridge. Fireworks were easy to find in upstate NY. The fall was dry with little rain. It took one carefully timed match. The bridge went up like tinder within minutes. He’d never understood arson until now. The rush of the bridge as it went up in flames sent tingles up and down his limbs. Yeah, he’d be walking the mile home, but so would damn Domhall.

His foot slipped on the bank, sending him into the marshy stream below. Ted grabbed at the rocks, trying to get his footing. A knarled hand grabbed the back of his shirt. Ted coughed up slimy creek water from his lungs.

“Damn stupid.” Domhall’s voice echoed in his ears.

“The mayor’s never going to fix it.” Ted croaked out.

Domhall nodded. “You’re one of those psychopaths, right?”

“Yup, so stop fucking with me.” Ted pushed off, his sides bruised and his ankle throbbing from his fall.

Domhall trudged through the creek; Ted followed, wary of each step. The two men walked in silence, letting the road separate them as they returned to their isolated homes.